


Black Mood

by travellinghopefully



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Did I mention the smut?, M/M, SMUTTY SMUT, Slash, Smut, do not try some of this at home, hint of fluff, holiday Malcolm, inventive Jamie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 02:12:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6685087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm's in a black mood and Jamie decides to cheer him up - prompt from the incomparable @la-novatrice</p>
<p>So, as is my wont, my mind went to smut, nice, relaxing smut. Smut in the face of every obstacle. This somehow became multi chapter, as despite Jamie's natural inclination to impatience, this, this he wasn't going to rush</p>
<p>The remaining chapters will cover the remainder of their time away, there will be more smut, there may be a bath, there is probably football.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Mood

Malcolm was angry. 

Malcolm was incandescent. 

The corpses of junior ministers and citrus fruit littered the hallowed halls of parliament and Downing Street.

Angry was normal, incandescent was normal, this wasn't normal. 

Shit storm after shit storm rained down upon them. No one appeared to be able to open their mouth without expressly fucking up the one thing they were told to. There wasn't one cunt, there were a plague of them, if Malcolm was Pharaoh, then this was Ancient fucking Egypt. 

There were no remaining clean shirts or suits hanging on the back of the door, there weren't even pissy biscuits remaining. There was a rumour they would soon be on to the decaff. 

It was the apocalypse, or at the very least a close relative.

Malcolm wasn't sure if there was a line up that he would be able to pick out his own front door.

Fuck

Jamie had a plan. Malcolm could know nothing of the plan. Jamie was passingly fond of life.

 

"I’d have better people skills if I worked with better people." Phone call terminated

Jamie sitting behind Julius, expression utterly blank, pen sliding between his lips, mouth closed, cheek bulging obscenely. The pen moving backwards and forwards, his lips closed round it...Malcolm should be concentrating, should be listening with at least enough of his brain to counteract, diffuse, dilute, dissipate, nuke whatever useless stream of effluvium that Baldycock was spouting. He moved the papers in front of him, always a cue that things were over, he was busy...

Cuffs the perfect length, jutting just proud (yes, his mind had gone there) glimpse of cuff-links, the ones for their anniversary? Too loose, too big, wrists bone thin, fragile (belying his strength) - thumb swiping over the papers, fingers splayed. Jamie’s movements may be explicit, but Malcolm’s were none the less suggestive, sly, subtle fucker.

His eyes caught Jamie’s movement (fucker, eyes downcast, best Bambi, Lady Di, butter wouldn’t melt, innocent, fuck him. Tightening, twitch, euphoric rush, flare of arousal, blood rushing away from his brain...)

A riled Malcolm, a needy Malcolm, a reckless Malcolm, mostly perfect. 

Idle thoughts of shoving Julius out of the way, and taking him over the conference table, Julius still there, mouth gaping, hands flapping, still droning on. Texting him his exact thoughts and awaiting his reaction. The glance, the bunching of the muscles in his jaw, the swallow. This was all coming together very nicely.

A fucking fact finding mission. 

Fucking outstanding. 

As if he had fucking time for that, as if he had fucking time for fucking anything. Jamie was travelling with him, he had him drag in a bag from home, trusting him to pack something more useful than an Iron Man onesie. He looked at the pile of fucking documents in front of him, trying to decide which he had to take and which he could risk leaving to fester and multiple for a few more days. Every part of him ached to be away from this cesspit, and yet, if he stepped away for a moment any of the plates he'd kept spinning would crash and be gone. Fuck, yeah, that analogy was fucking perfect, he was a fucking old time music hall fucking sideshow, and about as much fucking use.

They settled into their seats on the plane, not enough time for the train and if they did away with any of the fripperies it was probably cheaper. £26 Ryanair - yeah, let anyone question his fucking expenses. One hour, twenty minutes, don't think about check in, or getting to and from the fucking airport, it was still quicker and cheaper than the train - he could have done with the hours of tranquillity, the space to stretch his legs, the alternative of not having his knees pressed up somewhere round his fucking ears - space to actually spread out his paperwork. The possibility of having luggage without having to undergo an examination more personal than his last fucking medical. He buried himself in his paperwork, he didn't exchange more than eight syllables with Jamie. He studiously ignored the text suggesting that they make use of the toilets.

Demanding the itinerary the moment they set foot in the hotel. Jamie insisting they drop their bags off first. Jamie handling check in, Malcolm already juggling his phones. He wasn't entirely fucking sure that he wasn't about to board another plane straight back to undo the mess they had mired themselves in within hours of his absence.

The room. 

One room.

What the fuck?

Rounding on Jamie, laying into him, working off weeks of rage and frustration and exhaustion. The fucker just smiling at him. 

 

"What am I going to do with you?" 

Laughing. He was fucking laughing. Was Jamie fucking insane? That was fucking it. Everything had finally melted what few brain cells he had.

They could not take any fucking time off. It didn't matter if he had somewhere over two years of leave outstanding, if he couldn't take time to sleep in his own bed, there was no fucking time for time away. Jamie was fucking insane.

"Do you have any idea how much fucking work I have to do?"

"And you’ll have just as much when you get back and everyone will still be an omnishambles."

"I don’t intend you to have fucking stroke, well not the terminal, vegetative state kind, although at the moment I’m not sure I can tell the difference between you and an honourable member of the House of Lords as it is."

He punctuated his comments with the application of his fingers...that had Malcolm chasing the contact with his hips, nipping at his throat, at any of the skin exposed by the removal of Malcolm’s tie.

A muttered “fucking feral...” words silenced by a bruising kiss

"When did we last have sex, do you even remember?"

Some muttered comment about a dry spell.

"Dry spell? Drier than the fucking Sahara. I fucking miss you. When did you last even come to bed, let alone fucking sleep. Often enough, you’re not even home."

"A ghrá geal. Hush will ye?"

 

His own tie securing his wrists, (wondered where that one went) pushed back into the armchair.

Hand in his hair, astride his lap.

"What do you want?" Asking him again. Feeling his fingers threading through his hair, pulling him against him, kissing him, one of them whining needily. 

Kissing along his jaw to his ear, taking the lobe between his teeth, nipping. Voice low, hot breath tickling, "what do you want?"

A mumbled reply, accent thick. Jamie knew perfectly well what he’d said, but there was no fun in acknowledging that. Stroking him, he asked again. 

"What did you say?"

"I want you to suck me off." Head down pressed against his shoulder, never one to articulate his desire, his need, for someone who worked with words, when it came to himself he was surprisingly reticent. 

Stopping Malcolm’s higher functions was his only aim, waiting for anger and irritation to fall away, waiting for him to be present, waiting of him to be here with him, waiting for him to be in the moment. 

He slid from Malcolm’s lap, causing protests and consternation when he didn’t sink to his knees. He leaned forward and kissed Malcolm once, then collected his bag and stalked into the bathroom – the fucker wiggled, he knew Malcolm was watching, even with his back to him, he still dodged the cushion thrown at his head.

Placed his supplies on the floor by the chair, a towel covering them.

He slowly unbuttoned Malcolm’s shirt, placing a finger on his lips when he started to speak, sliding the finger down, letting Malcolm bite and suckle, just for a moment, leaning in for another kiss, biting on the fullness of his bottom lip, mouth already swollen, relishing the slightest rasp of stubble, forgetting his purpose, losing himself in the pleasure of kissing with no hurry to end. Fuck, they needed more time away. He pushed the shirt back, exposing Malcolm’s torso to his hungry gaze, pulling the tails teasingly from the confines of his trousers, deciding where to put his mouth first – Malcolm’s hands reaching for him. No, that wouldn’t do, nope, this time Malcolm wasn’t in charge. 

"Keep your hands still, keep them on the armrests, you can do that can’t you?"

A flash of fire, a calculation of anticipation, the cost benefit analysis of compliance versus argument. Malcolm placed his hands with exaggerated deliberateness, flexing his fingers over the fabric, caressing, teasing – fuck the man, how could he do things like that. Jamie’s focus wavered, nope, no, he wasn’t going to be distracted, fuck the man. 

"Am I going to need to use more ties?" He tried to copy one of Malcolm’s fierce stares, aware that he was on the edge of dissolving into giggles....really not what he was aiming for. 

Malcolm began to protest, to shift in his seat, the tenting of his trousers conspicuous, the fabric marked already.

"Do I have to gag you?" Not their thing, both too hungry for each other’s mouths, but he had to threaten something, bring Malcolm to acquiescence...somehow...

Sliding his hand over Malcolm’s chest, through the sparse hair, fingernails grazing his nipples, following the path with his mouth. Allowing his hand to graze the belt of Malcolm’s trousers, feeling his hips lift and shift against the pressure of his knee, nails trailing a path through the more luxuriant curls lower down, growling at him to fucking keep still.

Finally closing his hand over the buckle of Malcolm’s belt, making sure to draw the moment out as long as possible, pulling the belt through the loops, every movement exaggerated, every action tortuous, keeping his hands well clear of where Malcolm wanted them. Flicking the button of Malcolm’s trousers open, revelling in the hiss of Malcolm’s breath, thinking of the times past when he’d made him come before he’d touched him. Desperate needy fucker, not that he would ever admit it. 

Pushing the damp fabric aside, pulling trousers and boxers down over his thighs, down to his ankles, feeling the shuffle of his feet, leaving him trapped, pushing his legs apart with his knees, lowering himself, putting his weight on his knees, allowing his chest to brush against his cock, one open mouthed kiss and pulling away again. The merciless teasing an end in itself. Finally on the floor in front of him, keeping eye contact, gauging his reactions, trying to decide how far gone he was. Kissing the inside of his thighs, the softest skin, his stomach, everywhere save where he wanted him, drawing it out, always inches from where he needed him.

The rush of control, blending with the submission of power, the surrender, subservience or at least the pretence, all this intermingled with love. Jamie licked a broad stripe from the base of Malcolm’s cock to the tip, gathering the moisture, swirling his tongue round the head, dipping into his slit, looking for the moment, Malcolm’s eyes fluttering closed, his head thudding back against the chair, giving up the battle for self control, giving the mastery to Jamie. Hands white knuckled, the grip on the chair fierce, belying everything.

Jamie stood. Malcolm’s eyes flew open. He left him there, he didn’t turn round. He walked to his bag again, pulled out the bottle of whiskey, selected a tumbler from the sideboard, added a handful of ice (sacrilege according to Malcolm) – the crack of the ice, the clink against the side of the glass. Angling his body so Malcolm could see, licking an errant drop from the side of the bottle, exaggerating the movement of his tongue. Malcolm opened his mouth to speak, to protest, to beg...one twitch of Jamie’s eyebrows enough to quiet him, to still him. Jamie took a long swallow, bending to kiss Malcolm, letting him drink from his mouth, an idea better in imagination than practice, chasing the spilled drops over his chin, down his chest, wondering if that wasn’t what Malcolm had wanted anyway. Setting the glass on the floor, the ice he would use later.

He lowered his head again

"No fucking teeth."

"What did I say?"

He placed a series of feather light open mouthed kisses over Malcolm’s length. Pausing again, taking another swallow of whiskey.

Fucking get on with it you fucker.

Jamie sat back on his heels, smiling, pushing the piece of ice between his teeth, holding Malcolm’s gaze until realisation dawned. Malcolm’s pupils were impossibly wide, the colour of his irises darkened to the stormiest of seas and he was losing his battle against keeping still. 

Jamie slid the fragment of ice against the heat of Malcolm, revelling in the choked invective, the jumble of pleading, the murmurings of his name, the threats the imprecations. Yes, everything was going perfectly.

He swept his mouth smoothly and seamlessly down his lover’s cock, knowing exactly what the contrast of hot and cold was doing to him. Humming, using his tongue, driving Malcolm closer and closer, marvelling at the ornery fucker’s control. Grabbing his arse firmly, locking him into him, trying to remember how to breathe, using his other hand, massaging his balls with the palm of his hand, tongue pressing against his length, pulling back, releasing him, relishing the near whine of want, placing more kisses against him. Malcolm trying to chase his mouth with the movement of his hips, looking up, silencing him, stilling him. Licking over his balls, tracing the seam with the very tip of his tongue, closing his mouth over him again, teasing through his curls, wrapping a hand round him, matching the movement of his mouth, dipping down. 

Feeling his hips flexing upward, legs straightening against him, feet still tangled in pointless underwear and unnecessary trousers, the tension in his thighs thrumming under him. Keep him there? Ease off? Torment him? Let him fly apart? He knew what he had planned, but he still deliberated in the moment. Swallow him down, let his ragged breathing slow, his features relax, his hands dangle limply...time for that yet. 

He pulled back. Standing up, he stretched, rolled his head on his shoulders. Waiting for Malcolm’s eyes to open, waiting to see if he would speak, see if he would reach for him, or whether he could hold himself still. When his eyes met his, he very slowly, very deliberately ran his tongue over his lips, relishing the taste, revelling in the look Malcolm gave him. Oh, he would make this last. He casually began to strip, no art, no finesse in his movements, but he knew Malcolm was captivated none the less. He lazily stroked himself a few times, trying to keep his mind away from his own want, his own need, running his fingers through his own arousal, lifting them to Malcolm’s lips, knees nearly buckling as his mouth closed upon them, sucking them clean, working them with his tongue, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

Jamie smiled, bent down, giving Malcolm the benefit of his arse and uncovered his accumulated supplies.

**Author's Note:**

> A ghrá geal = beloved
> 
> *waves at readers*
> 
> Hated this - let me know
> 
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> 
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